Blood of War (20 page)

They stood eye to eye, old man to young, master of the church and master of the realm, glaring at each other as if they were no more than dogs vying for territory. The world fell away, time stopped, seemed to reverse itself. And suddenly, they were back in the past, much younger versions of themselves, glaring eye to eye over a different matter. Different matter, same argument.

“
She's my daughter,” Threimes had said.

“
She has been found guilty of subversion and of practicing dark arts,” Maten had replied. “You know the consequences.”

“
But she's my
daughter
!”

Same old battle, same old arguments. Oh different words perhaps, but it all amounted to the same thing; in the end it was all semantic. In the end, it was all a pissing contest.

“I will not allow it, Maten,” the king said. “You will cease these activities immediately. If there are any more such reports, you will be arrested on charges of treason and your Soldiers of God will be disbanded.”

“
Then
help
me, Threimes. Let us put our differences aside. Let us work together as we once did. I truly fear what will happen if the Salosian dogs gain too much power. They will split your kingdom in half even as they destroy my church. They will make any damage caused by my Soldiers seem no more than a single drop in a storm.”

Threimes glared, muscles taut as a ship's rigging under a heavy wind. Then, as though the wind went still, the king slumped and sat heavily in his chair. Maten regarded him and saw the tired man the king was becoming. It seemed the pressures of court were trampling this man who was once so fine, so generous. Maten had once marveled at this man's vitality, his life. Now Threimes was tired, crushed under the weight of his throne.

With a wave of his hand, the king indicated a chair and gratefully Maten sat. It was a close thing; sweat crawled down his back in rivulets, his legs were rubbery and he was beginning to feel faint. Another moment and he would have sat, chair or no.

“What do you propose?” Threimes asked.

“Just as I have said, sire. We join forces and work together to rid ourselves of this dire threat. We lead a search to find these men. I leave it to you to find a commander for the combined forces but in turn, you listen to Prelate Thalor. He is the one to whom I have assigned this task. I have a church to run after all and I do not find myself with the time needed for this.”

The king's eyes narrowed. “Impossible. I told you before my forces are gathering to face a threat from the north. Certainly you've heard the news from the land of the Dakariin.”

Maten nodded. He had heard and he was as troubled as the king. According to his scryers, thousands of Dakariin had massed. It was unheard of. The Dakariin were a splintered race; they lived in tribes, battling amongst themselves ferociously and constantly. Somehow, someone was managing to bring them all together. It was, at the very least, cause for concern.

“Yes sire. It's all the more reason for us to rid ourselves of the menace within our borders as quickly as possible. Then we will all be free to face this new challenge.”

Slumping back into his plush chair, the king glared at him, considering.

“I will allow use of the Grayson garrison. I will inform the Duke and he will be at your disposal. Do not overuse him. I may need him soon.”

He wanted more, he wanted to have such a force as to utterly annihilate the Salosians, to grind them into the dirt. He had harbored a hope that the force would be a combination kingdom and prelacy men; perhaps through shared trials and victory, he and Threimes may have mended fences. But it was the best he could have hoped for.

Maten was no tactical genius but he understood the king's position. Threimes could certainly not commit all his strength so far to the south. If the Dakariin moved during that time, then the armies of Threimes would be seriously out of position, and completely incapable of responding. The kingdom would be gutted like a downed stag by the wolves of the north.

He rose from his chair reluctantly, thought he should have stayed standing after all, his old bones creaking, his guts roiling with too much heat. It was a long way back to the temple from here.

“Thank you, sire. Do I have your permission to withdraw?”

Another wave, a jerky motion, though the king still did not look up from his pondering, and Maten turned to depart. He made it as far as the door, before the king brought him up short, calling his name. He rolled his eyes but when he turned once again to face Threimes, his expression was smooth even as Threimes's was sharp, his eyes knifing into him.

“Your Majesty?” he asked mildly.

“This does not make us friends. Only allies and only for so long as this task remains. Do you understand?”

He lowered his eyes, hoping he portrayed sadness and regret when in fact he tried to hide his annoyance. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

* * *

Leaning in his saddle, Jurel strove to listen to Metana over the hiss of the rain. It was difficult; the entire forest vibrated with the weeping of the sky. He endured it stoically. He had lived on a farm a long time. Farmers tended to pay close attention to the weather and they tended to abide rain with uncommon fortitude. After all, crops did not grow without rain. He only wished the rain would do more to banish the heavy, breath-sapping heat. Instead, the rain joined forces with the heat and the entire forest drooped, sagged like boiled wool in the relentless humidity.

Metana was chattering about her first days at the Abbey and Jurel, though distracted with glum thoughts, did his best to listen. In truth, he enjoyed Metana's stories, enjoyed just hearing the sound of her voice. A sideways glance showed a wistful smile teasing her lips and that made him smile. He found himself wishing these stories could be shared in private, perhaps while they shared dinner. Or a bed.

He jolted at that, and quickly suppressed the foolish thought. He knew it was possible. The Salosians did not swear vows of celibacy as the members of the prelacy did—he had seen plenty of evidence every time he looked to the fields beyond his window and saw the children gamboling. But he had to be honest: possible it may be, but probable? No. He had considered it but though she had never said so, she had made her stance very clear: he was a student, she was his teacher.

Though lately, ever since he had given her the rose, especially since then, he had caught her peeking at him when she thought he would not notice. Her scrutiny was, he thought, considering. It made him squirmy though it was not altogether discomfiting.

His musings, and Metana's chattering trailed off when they spied Gaven approaching through the trees. He was scowling.

“Sister,” Gaven muttered and bowed from his saddle. Then, turning to Jurel, he said, “M'lord, your presence is requested.”

With a pained expression, Jurel hunched his shoulders. “'M'lord?' Really Gaven?”

Gaven flashed him a grin. “Well, seeing as I'm your aide, I thought we should observe the proper forms.”

“Please. Don't.”

“As you wish, m'lord.”

Gaven chuckled as he scampered ahead of Jurel's fist.

“You coming, Metana?”

With a shrug, she nodded.

They followed Gaven past several squads of armsmen, Jurel's swordmaster guards melting through the woods at a discreet distance behind them, until they spied Mikal and Kurin through a break in the trees. With them was a wiry man that Jurel had never seen before.

Astride his old gray mare, Kurin smiled. “There you are, my boy.”

With a nod to Jurel, Mikal spoke to the newcomer. “Repeat what you just told us, Gulgan.”

Gulgan was a lithe man who moved with a sinuous grace that spoke—no
screamed
—danger, that this was not a man to be met in a dark alley.

He threw a contemptuous glance at Jurel, a slight twist like a half grin, to his lips, and asked, “Who is this young ox then?”

He doesn't know me
. And strangely, Jurel found a grain of disappointment in that thought. It was, of course, utterly ridiculous to think that everyone should know him as if he were the king
or the Grand Prelate. Or a god. God in
training
, as Kurin said. Completely and totally foolish. But there it was. Even more ridiculous since it was Jurel himself who had wished on countless occasions that people would treat him like a normal human being.

“Have you not met Jurel then?” Kurin asked mildly. Then, turning to Jurel, he said, “Gulgan has been out in the land for the last few years or so maintaining our network of contacts and gathering information. I imagine he missed hearing about what's been going on at the Abbey. Namely, you.”

Jurel tensed, waiting for the inevitable response. Not everyone knew Jurel but they knew his name. And he was right. Of course he was. Jurel had gotten the same reaction at the Abbey a hundred times. Every time someone new learned his name.

Gulgan paled noticeably, his eyes widened, and he suddenly developed a nervous twitch in his left cheek. Sweat popped out on his forehead as if someone had wrung him like a wet cloth, and he backed his horse away a step as though he was afraid Jurel would suddenly take his head off with one mighty swing of his hand. Which was possible. An image of a fat high priest named Calen popped into Jurel's mind.

But Jurel had been under a lot of pressure that day. Jurel found a smirk somewhere. Chances were, Gulgan was safe enough. Gulgan hesitated, looked as though he was about to fall off his horse and drop to his knees, but instead he just sat there and his mouth moved silently. He swallowed with an audible click.

“My-My Lord. Your Holiness. Forgive me, please. I-Forgive me. I did not know.”

What? Did he expect a
halo?
Maybe a roll of thunder whenever I take a step?

“
Of course not. How could you?” Jurel reassured the trembling man and though he tried for
joviality, he knew that his exasperation shone through bright and clear. Even worse than the disappointment of not being recognized—
fool
, he thought,
I'm a vain fool—
was the reaction he got when he was.

The sinewy swordmaster blanched even more.

“
It's fine. Really,” Jurel said and held his hands out in the universal gesture of
calm down
. “Can we get back to the issue at hand?”

“My Lord? I don't understand.”

Oh boy.

“The name is Jurel. Please. None of that 'my lord' stuff. You were about to repeat something for my benefit?”

Even Mikal appeared to be suppressing a smile.

“Ah...yes. Ah...well, you see My Lo—uh, Lord Jurel, I've been out with a few of the other swordmasters trying to get a feel for the common folk. Everyone's got wind by now of what's been happening. But you see, the villagers don't want to be involved in what they're already starting to call the Church Wars—though I heard a few name it the Unholy War. Quinn was near run from Caltown. Resik went to Soldier's Rest and he had an easier time of it before catching up with me. I guess the mayor, Pondil I think, is sympathetic to us. But even so, no one's real interested in raising arms against the prelacy.”

“Yes, I know Pondil,” Kurin said quietly. “He's one of ours.”

“
Is anyone having
any
success?”

“I didn't stay long in Thurston. A quick bite and a tankard while Resik told me what he knew and I was gone. I rode hard to catch up with you. But before I left, Resik said a couple of the younger men had approached him, all secret-like.”

“I don't understand.”

“He means that you have some support out here,” Mikal growled. “But not much. What are you doing with the one's who approach you, Gulgan?”

“We're sending them down to the Twins as we do with any new recruits.”

“Any numbers?”

“Combined total, maybe a few hundred.”

Mikal nodded. “It'll help. Even if all they can do on the day of the battle is run supplies back and forth. It would free up more experienced hands. What other information do you have, Gulgan?”

The man shrugged. “Not much. I did manage to pick this up at Thurston before leaving.”

He handed a ratty piece of parchment to Kurin who, after scanning the contents, whistled low. Ashen faced and wide-eyed, he handed it to Jurel.

It had about the same effect on Jurel as it did on Kurin. A short missive, in bold, black letters filled with curls and swirls as though rendered by an artist, read:

PROCLAMATION

WANTED: Jurel Histane for the crimes of murder, heresy and sedition

Tall, broad of shoulder, light brown hair and blue eyes, young.

REWARD: 1000 GOLD PIECES

WANTED: Kurin Makentyr for the crimes of murder, heresy and sedition

Tall, thin, gray hair and blue eyes, decrepit.

REWARD: 1000 GOLD PIECES

The color drained from his face as he read and though the day was warm and the forest was heavy with humidity, he felt a chill. He should have expected something like this, but seeing it, actually holding it in his hands, it was a surprise.

“And lastly,” Gulgan continued, “it seems the burning of villages has stopped. I heard tell the king put a stop to it right quick. Beyond that, as you know, a huge force is marching south. A vanguard of about two thousand, followed by the main body some days behind of nearly forty thousand. There seem to be near a thousand priests with 'em too.”

He had heard the numbers before but it still affected him like a punch in the gut. The priests were fairly evenly matched, but forty thousand Soldiers of God marching to face an army of a little over four thousand. How, oh how, would he manage to bring them victory in the face of that? Victory? Posh. How would he keep them all from utter destruction?